Flannel folded on top of linen on top of velvet and taffeta and silk and calico. Smell of the dryer and iron, tinge of hot metal. The soft cut of thread on dry fingers. The whir of the machine behind the door.

The sewing room was more like a closet, hemmed in at a back corner of the house. Space as a wide as the window that let in the afternoon sun like a silent hallelujah. . . .

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